


we're starting at the end

by Emamel



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Body Horror, Eventual Fix-It, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Temporary Character Death, The gays unbury themselves in Derry, very temporary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-16 06:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21503386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel
Summary: Nobody who dies in Derry ever really dies.Richie dies on a bright August afternoon in the depths of Derry's sewer system; the next day, he knocks on Eddie's door.And that's just the beginning.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club & The Losers Club (IT)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 145
Collections: It Faves





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Emma, why are you starting another WIP when you've still got multiple unfinished works like you're 12 again??_ I hear you ask. Good question.
> 
> Moving on, this is literally just a fun, cathartic piece for me to write. It may be less fun to read. Soz. Also, the first chapter is very short because i was typing in a sleep-deprived, dreamlike haze when I should really be packing, but never mind. I crave validation.
> 
> As always, I am over on tumblr as TheAceAce if you want to come and scream at me about literally anything.

Eddie doesn’t know how they got out of the house – out of the caverns. He doesn’t know if they managed to find their way back out of the sewers or if they climbed up out of the old well. He doesn’t remember anything about it at all, but there are burns on the palms of his free hand that may have come from the rope, and he must have fallen at least once because he’s skinned his knees. His legs are a grimy, murky brown and there must be all kinds of shit – including _literal_ _shit_ – getting into the cuts, but he can’t feel it.

Adrenaline, he thinks, little hysterically. Adrenaline, and terror, and –

Someone has their arms wrapped around him. Tight bands around his chest, and he can’t tell if his breathing is shallow because his throat is closing or because they are constricting, cutting off his air. His vision is blurry – _like Richie’s must be, without his glasses_ – and he can’t twist far enough to see who’s holding him, but it’s too tight, it’s too tight, he’s being dragged back, dragged like –

Bev appears in front of him. Her face is creased and all screwed up like he’s never seen before, not even in the bathroom when there was blood all up the walls, not even when the fucking clown looked like her dad all grinning and creepy as shit, not even when she screamed fury at Bowers and threw rocks with an aim that was unerring and devastating.

She looks torn apart at the seams. She looks like she's crying. She looks like she's speaking, except Eddie can’t hear what she’s saying.

It’s like being underwater, he observes distantly. Like when – _Richie_ – pushed his head down in the quarry; just for a moment, but it was enough to fill up his ears with water and his own roaring blood. He’d been so sure he was going to drown in that split-second, that the water would rush up his mouth and down into his mouth; except the pressure had disappeared before he’d had time to panic, and he’d come surging back up out of the water with a vengeance. They had laughed, once he’d managed to blink the brackish water from his eyes and succeeded in knocking – _Richie’s_ – feet out from under him. Laughed until he thought they’d throw up, until his stomach hurt like the time in gym class he’d had to do non-stop sit-ups because he’d been too busy snickering with – _Richie_ – to listen to what the teacher had to say.

He isn’t underwater anymore, but his ears are still roaring, and he can’t hear Bev, and he can’t blink away the water from his eyes because it just keeps coming back, he doesn’t understand, how does it keep coming _back_?

“Eddie, Eddie _stop_ ,” he hears finally, only he doesn’t know if it’s Beverly or whoever is holding him, only hears the words echoing and distant and strange, like a Voice. He can barely hear them, and the roaring isn’t going away – if anything it’s getting impossibly _louder_ , surrounding him and pressing heavy on his head until it feels like he’s going to explode.

And then the arms around him slip slightly, and he realises a moment too late it’s because his knees have buckled, and the only thing keeping him even sort of upright now is – oh, it’s Stan. Stan, who is also crying. Stan, who has dried blood cracking on his cheeks and starting to run again where it’s mixed with his tears. Stan, who has sunk to the ground with Eddie instead of letting him fall, Stan who hates to be touched like this, Stan who had screamed in Eddie’s face in the sewers that they weren’t friends.

Eddie hadn’t known what to do to help then, so he’d talked, and talked, and talked without thinking about any of the words coming out of his mouth until Stan had actually properly looked at him and finally calmed enough to be helped to his feet. Eddie wants to be able to do that again, wants to be able to help, but his mouth won’t cooperate, won’t move to shape words.

It won’t move because it’s hanging open, he realises in a small, far-away part of his brain. He can’t say anything because –

Oh. It isn’t roaring in his ears – he feels stupid it took him so long to notice.

He’s _screaming_.

It goes like this – Richie is brave in a way that Eddie has always dreamed of being, impulsive and stupid, and so much larger than life. Richie will swear in front of teachers, and hurt himself doing dumb tricks on his sister’s old rollerskates, and climb trees that he has no way of getting down from.

And he’ll empty a soda onto Henry Bowers’ head so that they don’t realise it was Eddie that kicked over his popcorn. And he’ll pick up a bat and say _I have to kill this fucking clown._ And he’ll follow Bill into a haunted crack house _twice_ even when they’re fighting. And he’ll pull Eddie back, away from the _fucking clown_ , putting himself between Eddie and the threat.

Twice.

It goes like this - Eddie doesn’t see It coming. Of course he doesn’t. It hadn’t wanted him to.

They had screamed, and they had kicked, and they had swung a damn _baseball bat,_ and they had skewered It with a fence post, and It backs off. It staggers away, and It looks small, and weak when It falls. It scrabbles backwards, white greasepaint flaking away from It’s creepy fucking face, and It shakes, and It whimpers, and It rolls itself over the lip of the cistern.

And then it isn’t just the paint flaking away, but whole fragments of skull, oozing sticky black blood that hang in the air above Its head.

And then Mike hands Bill the pipe.

And then they are all watching Bill as It stammers, as It mocks, as It laughs.

And then they aren’t watching Its hands.

It goes like this – Eddie is watching Bill.

Richie is watching Eddie.

Richie sees Its arm stretch out along the ground, fingers sharpened to needle points.

Eddie doesn’t.

It goes like this – It falls, and It drags Richie

d

o

w

n

with It.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, double update whaaaaaaat? I had a day off and responsibilities to avoid, trust me when I say this is never happening again.
> 
> I'm so sorry my sweet children.

It goes like this – Eddie is outside, and the afternoon sun is warm on his face, and Stan’s arms are tight around him, and Bill’s hands are clammy on his face, and Richie is still down there. Eddie jerks back and almost knocks Stan over with the force of it, but he needs Bill’s hands off him, he can’t, he _can’t_ –

_Richie squeezing his cheeks, a sing-song ‘cute, cute, cute’ muttered under his breath while Eddie swears at him and prays that he doesn’t feel the heat of blood so close under the skin –_

_Richie grabbing his face, look at me, look at me Eds, it’s okay, it’s okay –_

\- he can’t have someone else touching him.

The sewers had started to flood, he thinks. It’s a rational, clinical sort of thought, and he clings to it with both hands and every scrap of sanity he can muster. The pile of junk had started to topple. The floating kids had started to fall. The ground had started to shake. They couldn’t have stayed down there, not if they wanted to survive.

These are all very good, sensible points for his brain to make. They’re the sort of points Mike would make if he ever had to have a look inside the chaos that is Eddie’s mind.

Not a single one of them make sense to him.

They _left_ Richie down there. With the clown that is probably fucking dead, except they don’t know for sure, do they? They left their friend, who is probably _also_ fucking dead, except they _don’t know for sure, do they_?

No wonder Stan is clinging to him so hard. If he’d let go for a second, Eddie knows he would have been back down the stairs, down the well with no rope and only one functioning arm, back through the sewers and the greywater, and down, down, down.

He’d follow Richie anywhere.

Eddie doesn’t think he’s screaming anymore. His throat is sore, and his voice is almost gone, but he can feel his mouth moving; lightning fast, and jittery like the time they’d all downed mugs of too-hot black coffee at Bill’s, partly on a dare, and partly to see what the big deal was. Eddie had felt like his brain was about to melt right out of his ears, and Richie had ricocheted off every piece of furniture in the living room – Eddie had strained a muscle in his neck struggling to keep him in view the whole time, and complained about it endlessly.

He’s sure that he’s crying, though, because Ben has tucked himself up against his side with an arm slung around his waist, and Bev is gripping his hands like they’re the only things holding her down and stopping her floating back off into the Deadlights. Stan hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word.

Mike is trying to talk to Bill, hands out like he’s worried Bill might see him as a threat, and from the wild look in Bill’s eyes, he may be right. Bill’s fisted both his hands in his hair, and he’s pacing, pacing, pacing, back and forth like he’s possessed. He yanks at the strands, shakes his head and then his whole body, and he doesn’t stop muttering the entire time. Eddie can’t hear him, but he watches the movement of his mouth with a detached curiosity.

He stammers over every word.

There’s a part of Eddie that’s awfully, _viciously_ pleased about that.

“It’s stopped,” Ben murmurs eventually, and they all twist to look at him. Eddie doesn’t understand for a long, long moment; Ben has his free hand spread across the tarmac, and he’s staring at the ground with an intensity that sits strangely on his soft features. He glances up, meets each of their eyes in turn. “The ground, it’s stopped shaking.”

Bill jerks, turns towards the house like he’s about to run back inside, like he wasn’t the one that – that –

Mike grabs him, grips his wrists and pulls his arms gently down until they’re at his sides, hands clenching and stretching uselessly like he’s still got them buried in his hair.

“M -Mmmmike –” He says, and it’s clearly a struggle. His jaw is locked up tight, and even from here with his eyes still watering, Eddie can see the cords stand out in his neck with the effort of speaking. Eddie tugs uselessly at Bev’s hands, squirms in Stan’s grip, but he can’t get free and his legs are shaking so much that it’s no wonder he hadn’t noticed the ground is still. He doesn’t think he can stand, but for Richie he’ll run, he’ll _crawl_ back into that house if he has to, they can’t just leave him down there, they can’t, Richie hates the dark, and the quiet, and he hates being left behind.

“The whole place was flooding,” Mike says, and his voice is thick. “We can’t go back down there, Bill.”

Eddie’s shaking his head, and he doesn’t know if he’s disagreeing with Mike, or if he’s just refusing to… to listen, to accept.

“Maybe it wasn’t that bad?” Ben says, and his voice cracks. “I mean, the sewer and the drainage system’s designed to be able to cope with a sudden rush of water.”

Eddie’s tense, a reflex, a subconscious response as he waits for the joke about a sudden influx of water in a _sewer_ ; waits for a laugh so obnoxious it should, by all rights, be called a cackle. Waits for someone to sigh and call _beep beep._

When it doesn’t come, his hands start to shake as well. Bev squeezes them, runs her thumb across his knuckles.

Behind him, Stan is very, very still.

“He wasn’t – it shouldn’t have – I didn’t –” Stan says, and his hands finally slip free of Eddie, leaving Eddie loose, floating, untethered. Only Eddie tries to push himself up, tries to get his feet back under him, and can’t. He crashes back down onto Ben. Tries again, and almost knocks Bev flying.

Again.

Again.

Again.

But he can’t stand, and he can’t run, and Ben won’t let him drag himself across the road to the house on his knees, fingernails clawing at the grit. Now that Stan’s started whispering it doesn’t seem like he can stop, and Bev moves around Eddie to bury her face in his shoulder.

“Tomorrow.” Bill says, and it’s firm, there’s no stutter. He’s staring down at his hands, wrists still caught gently in Mike’s hold, and his shoulders are hunched. But he doesn’t waver as he says, “we’ll go back down tomorrow, and check. If the water’s too high then we’ll try the Barrens. We won’t leave him down there.”

That isn’t good enough, it’s not _good enough_ , Richie would never have left them down there, not any of them, he’d’ve gone back to get them one at a time if he had to, and it isn’t until Bill drops to his knees and pulls Eddie tight against his chest that he realises he’s been saying it out loud, has been voicing every little thought that crosses his mind, and he’s probably in shock, or maybe concussed, maybe he hit his head one of the times he fell and that’s why everything is so hazy now, maybe none of this is actually happening at all, and he hit his head so hard he’s in a coma, and any minute now he’ll wake up and he’ll be fine, and Richie will be trying to flirt with the nurses even though he doesn’t come up to their shoulders and his voice always cracks when he talks to girls that aren’t Bev, and eating all of the chocolate he’d bought from the hospital gift shop to share with Eddie when he woke up.

 _Wake up_ , he tells himself, _just wake up._

He blinks hard, and snuffles, and he’s still pressed against Bill, the road almost hot enough to burn on his bare legs.

“We won’t l-leave him, Ed-Eddie,” Bill says, and he’s crying too.

Bill’s known Richie even longer than Eddie, almost as long as Stan. Eddie had pretended, when he first started hanging out with them, that he didn’t feel like an interloper, like he’d known them all along. Richie had made it so easy.

“What are we gonna tell his parents?” Stan asks suddenly, and it sends an electric jolt through them all. As one they straighten; start to panic all over again. Eddie didn’t think he had any fear left in him after the day, didn’t think there was any room for it in the scooped-out hollow of his chest next to the hurt and the fury.

“If It’s really gone, then whatever It did to Derry might be over too,” Mike says softly. “The adults might… They might…”

 _Care_ , he doesn’t say, but they can all hear it.

Eddie knows Richie’s parents. Mr. Tozier always calls him _young man_ or _sport_ , and Mrs. Tozier always gives him extra helpings of dessert when he eats at their house. They let him sleepover whenever he wants, and they smile at Richie and laugh at his jokes, and help him with his homework even though he’s smart enough that he never needs it, and, and

Even with whatever It did to Derry, Eddie knows that Richie’s parents love their son. He thinks of Betty Ripsom’s mom, stood outside the school every morning and afternoon for weeks, waiting; of her devotion even as the cops stood around and rolled their eyes at her.

Eddie has no idea how much of that was It, and how much was them.

“We, we can’t tell them the truth, they’d never believe us, and we can’t even tell them where to find him because how are we supposed to say that we were down in the fucking sewers in the first place, they’ll never look there, they’ll never find him like that, all they’re going to do is tell the police and you know they won’t look for him, they’ll just say that he’s _missing_ , but we know where he is, Bill, Bill, we _know_ where he is, he isn’t, he isn’t _missing_!” Eddie says, and he’s rocking back and forward with the force of it, Bill’s t-shirt bunched up in his left hand.

He couldn’t do anything in the house. Richie had held a crumpled up missing poster in a white-knuckled hand, and all Eddie could do was cover his mouth in horror. It was Bill that talked him through it, Bill that dragged him away from the room and the cobwebs, and the black-and-white photo. Richie had been so scared, eyes darting wildly, and Eddie hadn’t done _anything_.

It isn’t fair, it isn’t _fair_ , he’s not missing, Eddie knows exactly where to find him.

“I’ll t-tttt-tell them he’s staying a-at mine tonight,” Bill says. “Th-they like me, they won’t check, and m-my parents wo-wouldn’t notice if he was st-s-sss-staying. When we f-fff-f-find him tomorrow, we can – we can figure it out then.”

Eddie whines high in the back of his throat at the thought, but he doesn’t fight Bill as he lifts him up to his feet. There’s no sitting him in the basket of Mike’s bike this time – he stumbles on unsteady legs, and tries not to feel bad about leaning on Ben and Bill. They wait for Stan and Bev to clamber to their feet, hands clasped so tight it must hurt. Stan’s shaking his head still, a little, keeps whispering to Bev that he doesn’t _understand_ , as though there’s anything else _to_ understand. It was fucked up, and It wanted to fuck them over one last time, and Eddie was too stupid to watch what It was doing, even though as long as It was still alive then It was dangerous. Stan understands Richie – he always did, better than Eddie some days. Eddie doesn’t get why he doesn’t understand this.

But then he takes in Stan’s face – even paler than normal, sweaty and sallow. His lips press together so hard they’re white when he isn’t speaking. Against his cheeks, the blood looks almost black, even in the bright afternoon sun.

“You should clean that,” Eddie says, jerking his cast towards Stan’s face. “I was reading the other day that two in every hundred people have this antibiotic resistant bacteria just living on their skin all the time, so even if they haven’t been splashing around in the sewer they can get really serious infections, and then pass it on to everyone else when they have to go to hospital, and it’s actually really dangerous –”

“As dangerous as a staph infection?” Stan asks, because Richie isn’t here to do it.

“It _is_ a type of staph infection you moron,” Eddie snaps back, and the ground feels a little more solid under his feet. “My mom’ll probably be out when we get back, and I still have all the bandages from when we had to mummify Ben, so.”

“Please don’t talk about mummifying me,” Ben protests weakly. He keeps sniffing and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand which isn’t as gross as being vomited on by a clown manifesting as a leper, but is still really gross.

Stan grimaces, but he nods.

“Fix ‘im up good, Dr. K,” Bev murmurs; her British accent is somehow even worse than Richie’s, and Eddie doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or kick her. But when he turns to glare, she looks so drawn, so _exhausted_ , that he finds he can’t do either. He just nods to her when she splits away from the group with Bill and Ben, to head back towards her apartment.

Eddie was right – his mom is out, at a neighbour’s house for her book club, which is really just a drink wine and complain about their children club. He ushers Stan and Mike up the stairs to the bathroom, and runs back to his room to grab the bandages he’d hidden beneath his comics and old library books, knowing his mom would never look there.

Eddie doesn’t really know the best way to bandage the lines down Stan’s face – they’re awkwardly placed, and the first couple of times he tries, he’s trembling so bad he can’t get the tension right, too tight, then too loose. In the end, he has to send Mike out of the room, to go and get them some juice or something because it’s good for shock and blood loss, and he can’t do this when he’s being watched.

When he finally gets it right on the fourth try, he sits back on his heels and asks Stan to talk, to move his jaw around like he’s eating to see if they slip, or the material bunches up too much. Stan does as he asks in silence for a second, before fixing dark eyes on Eddie.

He looks… He looks at Eddie like…

Like he _knows_. Eddie’s chest feels tight, all of a sudden; tighter than it did before, as though Stan can pin someone in place with his gaze far better than he could with his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Stan says finally, and Eddie panics, a little. His voice goes high; thin and reedy.

“Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

“I’m not sorry for pulling you out,” Stan says, and he has to gulp a few times. “Because Rich would’ve never forgiven me if I didn’t. But when I was – when that thing was, was on my face, I. I saw things, Eddie, It showed me things, but I swear I didn’t see that, Eddie, I’m sorry, I never would’ve… If I’d known, if I’d _seen_ that –”

Eddie darts forward before he can think about it too hard, and wraps his arms like a vice around Stan’s middle. He doesn’t usually seek touch like this – _except from_ – and will sometimes flat-out refuse to join in with anything more intimate than jostling arms and kicking feet.

But this is different. Stan needs this.

 _Eddie_ needs this.

“I know you would’ve,” Eddie says, even though he doesn’t really get what Stan’s saying. “I know.”

Stan sucks in a deep breath, and manages to swipe at his eyes as Mike comes in with a tray and three tall glasses of orange juice. He looks like he’s been crying too, and Eddie manages to reach out and squeeze his forearm as reassuringly as he can. Mike glances up at him, startled, before offering a wobbly smile. It’s strange – through all of this, Mike’s been so strong, so _unaffected_ , but now…

“Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” Mike asks softly.

And Eddie does, a little bit. Doesn’t want to wake to a house where the only sound is his mother’s snoring from the next room, wants to be able to reach out and grab a hand in the darkness, wants to feel someone’s weight dip his mattress, and someone’s breaths to warm his cheeks.

He just doesn’t want it to be Mike’s.

He shakes his head.

“Ma would never let you,” he says, as though the Losers have ever let a little thing like that stop them. But Mike must hear what he’s really saying, because he nods, and claps a hand to Stan’s shoulder.

They let themselves out, and Eddie sits on the side of the tub for a long time before he manages to stand and run himself a bath. He scrubs until his skin is almost raw, plastic bag tied carefully over his arm, and then he empties the tub, wipes it down, refills it and does it all over again. By the time he finally feels clean enough to wrap himself in a towel and stagger back to his room, he can barely keep his eyes open. There’s the tell-tale sound of the TV downstairs that says his mom got home sometime while he was bathing – he doesn’t remember calling to her, but he must’ve, or she would’ve knocked down the door, convinced that he’d drowned.

If he’d wanted to drown, he’d’ve made Stan let him stay in the sewers, he thinks, and bursts into tears.

If you’d asked him just an hour earlier, Eddie would’ve sworn that he wouldn’t sleep for a week. That every time he closed his eyes all he’d see was Richie’s face, the perfect shocked _o_ of his mouth and his scrabbling hands as he’d been dragged back, over the edge. But he’s so exhausted that even that isn’t enough to stop him falling asleep half-in his pyjamas and still curled on top of his sheets.

He sleeps for the better part of fifteen hours, and is only woken the next day because the doorbell chimes, bright and cheerful through the house.

Eddie cracks one eye open, but swings his feet off the bed and stands before he has a chance to think it through. It’s probably Mike come to check on him, he thinks blearily, and for a long, blissful moment he can’t remember why.

When it hits him, he has to stop halfway down the stairs to muffle a sudden cry against his fist. If his mom didn’t wake up at the doorbell, his minor breakdown probably isn’t going to do it, but he just can’t risk it. The doorbell rings again, twice in quick succession, and Eddie pulls himself together as much as he can, and sprints for the door. He knows the sorts of things his mom has to say about Mike and his family, and he doesn’t think he can stand it – at all, but especially not right now.

He swings the door open, scrubbing at his face, and lifts his eyes to meet startled hazel behind thick, cracked glasses.

Richie smiles at him with blue lips and bloodstained teeth.

Eddie slams the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact - this entire chapter was typed and posted from my phone whilst on holiday, so let's see if it works ok
> 
> If Eddie or Richie seem slightly out of character, well. It's been a rough day for them both. But I'm hoping I've done alright
> 
> Enjoy?

Eddie stares at his hands pressed flat against the door, chest heaving. He can't move. He can barely think.

From the other side of the door, there's a hesitant knock.

Okay.

Okay.

There are a few possibilities here, as far as Eddie's racing mind can figure, each exponentially more horrifying than the last.

The first - this is just a dream. There's a pretty substantial part of him that hopes that that's all this is. He'd cried himself to sleep, replaying the sight of Richie slipping back over into the pit 

(eyes so wide behind his glasses that Eddie felt like he could fall too, fall right into them and keep going forever, desperate fingertips scrabbling for purchase, mouth open around something that might have been Eddie's name as easily as it might've been a plea for help)

on an endless loop, mind caught on what could've happened to him after. It isn't unlikely that this is just his brain trying to process what's happened; that it had filled in details like the unnatural angle of Richie's leg, or the grey cast to his skin. It's a terrible dream, it's a nightmare, but at least he can wake up. Wake up to a world where Richie is somewhere deep beneath Derry and not stood outside his door smiling with his shoulders hunched up around his ears.

Eddie turns his back on the door, because if he doesn't then he'll do something stupid, like put his eye against the peephole, or open the door again. Just to check. Just to see. He presses himself against the door like he's trying to keep it shut, and slides slowly down to the floor. He stares blankly at the careful white dressings over his skinned knees, and jabs at one of them, hard.

He sucks in a breath when it throbs - not the false-pain of a dream where he knows something should hurt and his mind makes him think it does, but real, deep pain.

Not a dream, then.

The second - he's hallucinating. The clown, the sewers, Richie; all of it together was enough to make him snap, and he's currently smack in the middle of a serious psychotic break. He doesn't know an easy way to test that one. He could call for his mom, ask her to come down and open the door. If she didn't see Richie there, then he'd know.

Or he would think she saw Richie, would hallucinate her responses as well. How do you know if you're hallucinating? Eddie doesn't know, he doesn't know, it's not the sort of sickness his ma likes to think about and especially doesn't like to talk about.

Or she would see Richie - see him as Eddie saw him, bloodstained and still smelling of grey water. She would... She would... 

Eddie doesn't know, but the idea of what she might be capable of doing scares him almost more than the idea that he's lost it.

The third - this is real, and Eddie isn't going crazy, but it isn't Richie. They'd all seen It playing at being Georgie, had watched It break Bills heart with Its crocodile tears and bloody sleeve. Heard the tremble in Its voice as a child pushing back tears instead of a clown fighting not to laugh. It knows what they're most afraid of, but more than that, It knows what they _want._ It knows how to give it to them, just enough to make them scared they can't really have it. 

They thought they'd killed It, but they didn't see It die.

The fourth - Eddie doesn't let himself think about the fourth. It's impossible, because if that really is Richie out there, if he isn't a ghost - oh look, five - or a hallucination, or anything else, then that means that he climbed back up out of the sewers _alone_ after they left him down there _alone_ because he saved Eddie's life _alone_.

They thought It had killed Richie, but they didn't see him die.

Another knock. Eddie wraps his arms around his legs and presses his watering eyes to his knees. He'll have to rebandage them now, he notes distantly. Wet bandages increase the risk of bacterial strikethrough. The salt stings the wounds.

"You still there?" Richie's voice asks, softer than Eddie can remember hearing him. "Eds?"

**Where are you going, Eds?**

His breath freezes in his lungs, and he swears his heart follows suit.

"Don't call me that!" He spits wildly, nothing like his usual irritation; he flings himself away, away from the door. Away from the echoed laughter; except It follows him, It wasn't outside the door at all, It was right here, right next to his ear, hissing and whooping with vicious glee, and he staggers further, knocks into the side table, he can't breathe, he can't _breathe_ and his new inhaler's upstairs but he'll never make it that far, he can't, he _can't_ -

There are dark spots crowding the edges of his vision when he hears Richie again. It's just his voice this time, cutting through Eddie's gasps and the ringing in his ears with ease, despite how quiet it is.

"Eddie? Eddie, I'm sorry. Are you still there? Please don't go, Eddie, I'm sorry." 

He sounds like he's trying not to cry, except that can't be right, because the only time Eddie's ever seen him cry was down in the sewer when they clung to Stan after It retreated.

Does that mean it's more or less likely to be Richie? Eddie would never imagine him crying, not in a million years, but the real Richie would have cracked a joke by now, even through the barrier of the door, unable to keep a conversation serious for any length of time.

Eddie doesn't know what's happening, he doesn't understand; why, why is Richie here, why is he stood outside Eddie's door and crying, why isn't he down in the sewers, crumpled where he fell

(it takes twelve to twenty four hours for rigor mortis to set in, Eddie knows that but he doesn't remember learning it)

and unmoving? He doesn't understand why Richie isn't at home, just waking up to the sunlight on his face, crumpled comic book still open across his chest because he insists on staying up late to read them even though a regular sleep pattern is vital for good health, and he always ends up falling asleep halfway through a story.

He doesn't understand why it had to be Richie.

The dark spots get darker, his vision narrows, and he can't feel his hands, but when he holds them up he can see they're shaking. He's leaning heavily against the table, breath whistling in his throat, barely enough to expand his chest, fast and shallow like everything's constricting, like he's being dragged back through the tunnels, screaming every inch of the way.

"Eddie? Shit, Eddie, are you -? I can hear you wheezing, fucks sake, do you have your inhaler?"

Panic flares in the back of his mind. He'd thrown away his first inhaler, and his second is in the bathroom upstairs, still in its little paper bag. 

He tries to tell Richie all of that, and can't.

"Dropped," he forces out between gasps.

"Dropped -? Oh shit, right, outside the house. Okay, okay, fuck, guess we're doing this old-school. Okay, Eddie, remember that time down in the Barrens when your inhaler ran out, and Bill had to go get the refill? You did just fine then, Ben got you through just fine, didn't he? And that time in old Mrs Walters' geography class when she wouldn't let you go to the nurse even though you were clearly about to pass out? So I started throwing bits of eraser at her until she got so mad she forgot all about you and you could've snuck out to the nurse, only you were so distracted that you'd started to calm down? Yeah? We're gonna do that shit again, okay Spaghetti? Still with me?"

Somehow, impossibly, Eddie is. Richie takes deep, deliberate breaths as he speaks, and without noticing, Eddie had started to match them, so intent on listening to Richie even through the clawing panic; forcing the static in his mind _back_ long enough to memorise every cadence of Richie's voice, trying to find the fault that says it's not really him and coming up empty. He sounds like Richie - not just his voice, or even the pattern of his speech, but the little hitches in his words when he starts to get distracted halfway through a sentence and has to drag himself back on track, or the way Eddie can hear the dip and rise of his voice as he swings his arms around for emphasis. 

He still doesn't open the door, but he manages to wheeze, "yes."

Richie laughs, just once, and it sounds painful - a harsh bark that has Eddie cringing back.

"Good, that's, that's good, that's great. You had me worried, Eduardo."

Eddie thinks he should do something. He should… he should call Bill, or he should find something to defend himself with, or he should call Mike, or he should go back to bed, or he should call Stan, or he should shout for his mother, or he should call Bev, or he should tell Richie to go away, or he should call Ben, or he should open the door.

He should do _something._ He stares at the door, and sucks in a breath.

It's easier, now. It's a trained reaction to Richie's voice, to get so furious that he starts to calm down because there's no room left in his brain for whatever was bothering him in the first place, it's so full up of Richie. His breathing evens out, matches the speed and depth that he knows Richie is doing outside, because they've done this so many times that Eddie would know Richie's breathing blind and deaf, just from the feel of his ribs expanding and contracting. Sometimes, when he's tucked away in his room and his mother is safely asleep, he lets himself think about it, and imagines that their heartbeats are synchronised too.

It's a nice thought that he's never let himself have in the daylight before.

"I don't… Eddie, I don't know what to say," Richie says, which is impossible. There's never been a moment when Richie didn't know what to say, even if what he said was completely irrelevant, or wrong, or offensive. He's never been silent like this, never one to curb his own impulse to make as much noise as possible at all times. "I'm sorry, I don't…" 

His voice ebbs away, and he sobs - muffled, like he's pressed his hands against his mouth to hold it in. Eddie can feel his own eyes filling again.

"C'mon Eddie, please, talk to me. You don't have to open the door, even, just, please, I don't know," he pauses, and Eddie can hear the juddery stop-start as he loses control of his breathing, like an engine turning over and over without catching. Eddie feels himself matching it thoughtlessly, and fear starts to swell in the pit of his stomach

"I don't know what's _happening._ "

Eddie _aches._

"I mean, I woke up in this pit, and it smelled like your mom's bathwater only it didn't look like the sewers, it was just like this huge cave, and it was so dark, and I couldn't find my way out for so long, and then when I got back up I was in the fuckin' house again, and my leg is all messed up, and I don't know what happened to the goddamn clown, and I'm _scared_ Eddie, please man, just tell me we got It, tell me It's dead, because I think It killed me and I don't want to have died for nothing. _Please_ , I don't remember what happened."

That -

God, that's so much worse.

How can Eddie tell him? Richie doesn't remember pushing him back, out of the way, behind the shelter of his narrow shoulders and oversized shirt. Doesn't remember screaming as he fell, doesn't remember stretching for them, for any of them, doesn't remember how they all froze, how none of them could reach back until it was too late and he'd been pulled down, down.

Richie didn't die for nothing, but Eddie doesn't know if it's better that he died for _him_.

If Richie hates him for it, if he regrets the choice he made in a split second, Eddie doesn't - he can't -

And that's just supposing that this really is Richie. He thinks it is, god, he hopes it is, but he doesn't _know._

What can he say? What can he possibly say to Richie to make this better?

Richie waits, and then sniffles, loud and wet, and Eddie can just see him wiping his runny nose with the back of his wrist like a goddamn _animal_ because he never carries tissues or a hanky. 

Although anything in his pockets would have been ruined by the sewer water by now, Eddie guesses.

"Alright," Richie says, and it's soft, and it's hurt, and a fresh wave of tears breaks over Eddie's cheeks. 

"Alright," he repeats, and it's louder now, and angry, but -

It's angry like Richie had been with Bill; angry to hide the fact that he's scared, and he's hurting, and he never, ever wants his friends to know when he's hurting, even though he's the first one to step up with a dumb story or a joke when one of them is upset. Even when they don't want cheering up, even when all they want is a hug, or someone to sit quietly, Richie manages to drag reluctant smiles and laughter out. But Richie never comes to them when he's sad; Eddie always finds out a day or two later, when he mentions offhand to Stan, or when Mrs. Tozier takes Eddie to one side to thank him for cheering Richie up, and Eddie has to bite his lip against the admission that Richie never even told him what was wrong. That even when he notices something wrong, Richie won't tell him what it is, no matter how hard he tries to get him to open up. 

"Guess you've gone then, huh, Eddie? Fine! Fine, I'll just go, too, I'll go fuck myself! Fuck you, Eds - shit, sorry, Eddie."

**Eds.**

**What are you looking for, Eddie?**

_You,_ he thinks desperately, at the Richie outside his door, at the real Richie; he doesn't know if they're the same person, and he suddenly, fiercely doesn't care. This Richie is leaving, is walking away, is disappearing down the street, and if Eddie doesn't open the door soon then he'll be gone, he'll be too far away to see, to grab, just like before.

 _You_ , he thinks, to this Richie, to every Richie - to dream Richie, and hallucination Richie, and ghost Richie, and dead Richie, and alive Richie.

Eddie throws the door open, and staggers down the steps, feet bare against the smooth wood, then bare against the rough pavement as he stumbles to the road.

Richie is a few feet away, half-turned with his mouth open a little in disbelief, expression just beginning to crease into a frown.

There are tracks through the grime on his cheeks, half-heartedly smeared away where he'd wiped at his face. He's filthy, and he still smells like the sewers, and Eddie can see where his shirt is ripped in places, and he thinks he can see the skin underneath is ripped as well, but there's no fresh blood - only stains dark enough brown that they could be black, even in the sun. The morning light fragments on his broken glasses, and Eddie stares at them instead of down at his leg, where there are fragments at bone at an angle that should make it impossible to stand, never mind walk.

Eddie doesn't care. He doesn't know what it means, and he doesn't _care._

He barrels forward, and collides with Richie so hard he almost knocks them both onto their asses on the sidewalk. Wraps his arms around Richie's neck and _squeezes_ ; doesn't let himself think about how cold Richie's skin is. He presses his face into the space between Richie's neck and shoulder, like if he can just get close enough, he'll be able to smell Richie's skin under the stench of grey water and a sickly smell that he kind of knows from the hospital and refuses to put a name to. He can feel Richie's chest shudder with a deep breath, before his own arms come up hesitantly to wrap around his waist.

"So you heard all that, Spaghetti?" Richie asks. Eddie nods, not trusting his voice. He has to press his lips together to stop them trembling. 

Richie feels real. He feels solid, like Eddie could lean against him, or fall right on him, and he could take his weight. The breaths Eddie can feel against his ear move his hair just enough to tickle, even though they are freezing cold. The hands that pat gently at Eddie's shoulders when Richie tries to extricate himself are calloused from all the times Richie has tried to teach himself guitar, and covered in the silvery scars and little scabs of a clumsy kid that spends his summers being an idiot with his friends.

And there are new cuts too; grazes and slices that pull open when Richie squeezes Eddie's arms because he refuses to let go completely. They aren't bleeding. They don't look like they've bled at all.

Eddie doesn't think about it - he thinks instead about how he's going to explain the extra dirt on his cast to the doctor when he has to go and get it cut off.

"Wanna tell me what's going on?" Richie's voice is fragile, and extra loud like he's trying to make up for it. "Because I gotta tell you, Eddie, I'm having a really fucking weird day."

Eddie opens his mouth, even though he doesn't know what he's going to say - what he _can_ say, without breaking down - and is interrupted by the sound of a door slamming shut.

There's just enough time to be relieved, before he turns and realises that it was _his_ door.

His mom storms down the street to them, and Richie hastily lets go of Eddie's sleeve. Eddie steps back slower, like he's tearing a piece of himself off to leave with Richie. 

Like he can feel Eddie's reluctance, Richie offers him an awkward grin, and Eddie is struck again by the blood staining his teeth. It doesn't look new.

And then his mom is beside him, good arm clenched tight in one meaty hand, and she pulls him back a couple of steps, drags him behind her like _Richie_ is something to protect him from

(and he's sure now, sure that it is Richie, sure that it's _his_ Richie, he doesn't know how or why, but he _knows_ )

like somehow _she's_ the one who could protect him from anything.

Her mouth _twists_ when she looks Richie up and down - but there's only anger in her expression. She doesn't even seem to register the blood, or the blue of his mouth, or the - _ugh, fuck, shit_ \- the _bone_ of his shin. There's no fear, and no more disgust than on any other day.

"I thought I told you my Eddie-bear doesn't want anything more to do with any of you dirty children," she sniffs.

Something wobbles in Richie's expression, there and gone in an instant, too fast for Eddie to identify it.

Just long enough for him to know that he hates it.

Then the smile is back, oozing such exaggerated charm that Eddie doesn't think anyone would fall for it - and his mom had never liked Richie before.

"Sorry about that, Mrs. K," Richie says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilting his head with butter-wouldn't-melt innocence. "I was just passing by, and I wanted to let Eddie know that I still have his history notes for the summer project, and he can come and get them whenever. Didn't mean to wake you up."

His mom looks furious, but it's a reasonable, harmless enough explanation that even she can't find any real fault with it. Instead she just huffs, and starts to pull Eddie away, muttering all the while about _careless_ parents letting their _filthy_ children run _wild_ , risking the health of _good_ , _safe_ children like her Eddie-bear, the _nerve_ of some people, shouldn't be _allowed_ , I thought you knew _better_ than this Eddie -

Eddie doesn't listen, not to a word of it.

Instead, he twists in her grip, just long enough to catch Richie's eyes and mouth _Barrens_ , just long enough to see the glimmer of understanding on Richie's face, and his quick nod, before turning back and following his mom up into the house.

No doubt she'll try to ground him, but Eddie knows her schedule like the back of his hand, and even with one arm in plaster, it isn't hard to sneak out. He'll have to pick up the others along the way, make sure none of them head towards the Barrens or Neibolt before he's had a chance to -

Well.

He doesn't know what he'll tell them, doesn't know if there's anything he can say that'll make them believe him before they can see for themselves, but at the very least, he thinks they all need to be together for this.

Eddie follows his mom inside, and shuts the door behind them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: hey Emma, do you want to maybe stretch out these chapters a bit, make them a bit longer and juicier, or even work on one of your other fics?  
> Also me: give me validation or give me death  
> Me: understandable, have a nice day
> 
> There is an unforgivable lack of Richie in this chapter, but if it's any consolation, Eddie can't go more than three sentences without thinking about him, which I'm fairly sure is canon anyway

He sneaks out less than ten minutes later. His mom is easily placated by his reassurances, and once he’s forced down a cup of too-hot lemon tea, he says he’s going to his room to read comics, and work a little more on the model mustang he’s been planning. He promises to keep the window shut – _so much pollen about this time of year, Eddie-bear, you know how your allergies get_ – and the fan going – _heatstroke is so dangerous, especially for children_ – and to shout if he needs anything. And with that, Eddie knows that his ma will settle herself into her chair, turn on the television, and not move for the next eight-to-ten hours, except to make herself more tea.

There’s always the chance that she’ll try to check his room before he gets back, but he’s willing to risk it.

He waits a few minutes to be safe, until he can hear the soft sound of the TV filtering up the stairs, and pushes his door open as soundlessly as he can.

Between his room and the back door, there are seven creaky floorboards, and Eddie knows exactly where he has to step to avoid them all. Years of sneaking Bill, Richie, and Stan in for sleepovers, and sneaking them back out again come morning have made him an expert. He sits at the top of the stairs and shuffles awkwardly down them, right arm clutched close to his chest; it’s difficult with only one hand, but still quieter than trying to walk down. On the last step, he pulls himself up to standing, and stretches out to avoid the foot of space directly under the stairs that always squeals when he puts weight on it.

So far so good.

His shoes are in the kitchen where he left them to dry out on the easy-to-clean tiles, tucked away under the table when his mom wouldn’t look, wouldn’t be able to see how filthy they are and wonder what her precious son had been up to. He grabs them, and waits until he’s eased the back door open to put them on.

Then, he’s gone.

He doesn’t grab his bike, too afraid that his mom might look out the window and notice it missing, and only hopes that Bill or Stan will give him a lift to the Barrens – he doesn’t want to have to walk all the way out.

Although they had all agreed that they would look for Richie – _for Richie’s body_ – today, Eddie doesn’t know if anyone else will be up yet. He doesn’t know if they were plagued by nightmares that left them feeling like they needed to shake out of their skin, or if they didn’t sleep at all. If Bill sat outside of Georgie’s room and saw Pennywise’s pale imitation where his brother should have been. If Beverly heard Richie’s voice bubbling up from her sink.

Or maybe they’d all been like him – exhausted down to the bone, down to the hollow beneath his ribs where he is sure Richie has carved out a spot for himself.

By the time he gets to Bill’s he’s out of breath, and it’s only then that he realises he’d never picked up his inhaler – that even after Richie had managed to calm him down enough that could breathe on his own again, he hadn’t thought to grab it.

But then, what good would it really do? It isn’t medicine, he knows that now. Whatever effect it has on him, it has nothing to do with the contents of the inhaler, and everything to do with the feel of it in his hands, in his mouth, of the comfort of the routine. Richie knew that, he thinks; even before Eddie found out about the gazebos, he’s sure that Richie knew that. It’s why he always stood so close to Eddie when he suspected an attack coming on – it gives Eddie someone to push back at, someone to push around, who will shove back without worrying that Eddie is too fragile for such roughhousing. And sometimes, Eddie finds himself so caught up in trying to one-up Richie, in making him smile, and swear, and splutter, that by the time he remembers his throat was on the verge of closing, the storm has already passed.

It takes a minute of bending over double with his hands on his knees to catch his breath and settle his racing heart, and when he finally knocks on the front door, he’s already shifting from foot to foot, nervous energy flooding him down to his fingertips.

When Bill answers the door, he’s dressed already, shoes on and backpack slung over one shoulder.

Eddie doesn’t even have his fanny pack.

“E-Eddie,” Bill says softly – his eyes are swollen and ringed in red. He’s gripping the straps of his bag so tight his knuckles are white. Eddie cuts him off when he opens his mouth to say something more, and only feels a little bit bad about it.

“We have to go to the Barrens,” he says, the words running together into one sound. Bill closes his mouth and furrows his brow. He looks like he wants to argue, but can’t figure out how – like he’s worried that if he tries, Eddie will dissolve back into screaming and crying. Like his legs will give out again, and Bill will have to carry him to Stan’s house. “I can’t explain right now, not without the others, but we _need_ to go to the Barrens.”

Bill stares at him with those red-ringed eyes for a long while.

It’s not like Eddie doesn’t know what he must look like right now, how he must sound to Bill. He’s so fucking antsy he can barely stand it, his face is still hot from the run over, and he knows his eyes must be wild. Yesterday he’d been ready to throw himself back down the well for even a hope of finding Richie, and now he wants nothing to do with the Neibolt house. No wonder Bill looks so worried.

But Eddie _can’t_ tell him what happened. For a start, he’d think Eddie was crazy – or that it was Pennywise again, that they hadn’t done a good enough job, and without Richie here to back him up, Eddie wouldn’t even blame him. He’d thought exactly the same, after all.

Besides – Eddie doesn’t think he can do this more than once. He needs to have all the Losers together before he even tries to explain.

“Eddie, I know we said we'd ch-ch-cchhheck there, but e-ee-even with all t-thhh-the flooding, I dddd-on’t think -”

“Please, Bill, _please_.” Eddie sounds desperate. He knows he does. Can see it in the way Bill’s face crumples and his shoulders hunch; but then he nods, slowly, weakly.

“S-ssssure Eddie,” he says, and it’s very gentle. “We’ll go to the Barrens.”

Eddie doesn’t ask Bill for a lift to Stan’s – just sits on the back of Silver with his legs tucked up as Bill pushes off and starts pedalling. He wraps his arms carefully around Bill’s middle so that he doesn’t have to try to cling to the metal bar beneath him.

Bill is warm.

Richie had been so, so cold.

Eddie tucks his face into Bill’s shoulder and doesn’t think about it all the rest of the way to Stan's.

When Bill turns into Stan’s driveway, Eddie tries to hop off the back of Silver almost before he’s stopped, and snags his foot on the mud guard. He stumbles slightly, and catches himself by throwing his weight forward into a sprint, up the steps and onto the front porch.

Eddie’s never knocked on Stan’s door before. Any time he’s been here, it’s always been with Richie, who has known Stan since they were tiny. Richie used to practically live here, he’d told Eddie once, back when his mom was still putting in shifts as the receptionist and bookkeeper for his dad’s dental practice. Often, they’d both have to work late, so Richie had come to Stan’s every night after school, and had long since got comfortable with just waltzing right in and loudly announcing his presence.

Neither he nor Stan had ever seemed to think anything of it, so Eddie had never made a big deal either; even though the thought of his mom letting one of his friends just walk into the lounge leaves Eddie reeling.

It’s Stan that opens the door, and Eddie blows out a relieved breath. He’s always been a little scared of Stan’s dad.

Stan doesn’t look like he’s slept at all. His face is almost as pale as the bandages, and his hand shakes a little when he waves them into the house. He clears his throat a few times, and then falters, clearly unsure of what to say.

He scuffs his feet twice before entering each new room, something that Eddie vaguely remembers him doing a lot when they first met, but hasn’t seen him do in years. His stomach twists.

Stan leads them into the kitchen, where Mike is sat slumped over a bowl of cereal. He’s pushing it around with a spoon, and even from across the room, Eddie can see that it’s gone so soggy it’s not worth eating anymore. Mike glances up at them quickly, then turns his face back down. He looks almost as tired as Stan. His borrowed pyjama pants are rolled up to the knee, and there are bruises on his shins and up his arms from his struggle with Bowers. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts the spoon to his mouth and chews mechanically.

Eddie is almost vibrating – Richie is _waiting_ for them; he doesn’t want to have to wait here any longer than he absolutely has to – but he can’t bring himself to say anything. Stan slumps down into the chair next to Mike; unlike Mike, he’s dressed already, but his shirt is creased like Eddie’s never seen him wear, and there’s a stain he doesn’t seem to have noticed on the hem of his shorts. He stares down at his hands, picking at his fingernails, before he turns to Bill with a grave expression.

“What did his parents say?”

Everything is suddenly very, very still and very, very quiet. The only thing Eddie can hear is the blood rushing in his ears.

He’d forgotten.

God, he’d forgotten that they’d lied to Richie’s parents, had given them one more night of thinking that Richie was fine, that nothing terrible had happened to their son. He thinks of the Richie he saw this morning, compared to the Richie that would have wandered out of the house yesterday morning, probably with a hollered goodbye and no backwards glance.

Thinks of the blood, and the conspicuous lack of blood; thinks of the broken glasses and broken leg; thinks of the sight and the smell and the feel of him.

His mom hadn’t noticed, but then, his mom never looked at Richie unless she really had to, as though she might catch something just by making eye contact. As far as she was concerned, she already knew everything she needed to about him. But _Richie’s_ parents… if anyone besides the Losers is going to notice something wrong, it’ll be Richie’s parents.

“I t-tt-t-ttttold them he was in the ssss-shower,” Bill says, and sniffs, hard. “And I s-said we’d be p-pp-playing in the woods to-today, so he’d be home late. They d-didn’t question it. They _th-thhh-thanked me_ for letting them kn-nn-know.”

Stan drops his head into his hands; beside him, Mike stiffens.

“I can’t, Bill, I can’t _do this_ ,” Stan whispers. “I can’t lie to them, I can’t go back down there, I can’t see -”

He cuts himself off, but Eddie knows what he meant. He can’t see Richie’s body – can’t look at a _corpse_ knowing that yesterday it was his best friend.

Even knowing that he won’t have to – that Richie pulled himself up out of the sewers, that he’s probably already sat at the Barrens with his feet dangling in the disgusting water – Eddie has to blink back tears.

Mike curls an arm around Stan’s shoulders. Bill’s mouth thins into a hard line, and he shoots an uncertain glance at Eddie.

“We’re g-going to the Barrens f-ffff-f-f – _shit!_ First.” Bill says.

Stan doesn’t lift his head, and it’s Mike that glances uncertainly between them before gently asking, “why? Do you think he -”

_Yeah_ , Bill’s eyes seem to ask where they bore into Eddie. _Tell them why, Eddie. Do you think he –_

“It’s important,” Eddie says firmly. He won’t back down, not about this, not even for Bill.

It’s _Richie_.

Mike looks between them again, and swallows. He nods, once, twice, and squeezes Stan’s shoulder before standing. He empties his bowl, and rinses it carefully before putting it in the sink.

“I’ll go get dressed,” he says, and smiles a little at Eddie when he moves to take his place next to Stan. Eddie feels far too on-edge to be comforting, and he doesn’t think he’d be as good at it as Mike besides. But Stan looks so _defeated_ , he looks like he’s carrying the weight of Richie’s – _death_ – on his shoulders alone. Eddie hooks his foot around Stan’s ankle, and tries not to feel too hurt when he flinches back.

“Y-yy-you don’t have to come i-into the sewers,” Bill says finally, staring at his feet. “N-nnn-not if you don’t ww-w-wwwant to.”

Stan shivers once, a full-body movement that leaves Eddie’s arms in goosebumps just to watch.

“I have to,” Stan mutters, and Eddie is horrified to realise that he’s crying. “I can’t, but I _have to_ , Bill, it’s Richie. I didn’t – It didn’t – I can’t leave him, but I can’t go _back_.”

“It’s okay, Stan,” Eddie says, and he feels sick, he feels so sick, like the truth is bubbling and gurgling around in his stomach and if he isn’t careful, any second it’s going to come rushing up out of his throat like literal word-vomit. Of all the days not to bring his fanny pack – he knows that most of the medicines in there are bullshit, but he’s sure he has something for nausea tucked away in one of the pockets. He takes a deep breath through his nose, before continuing, “nobody’s going to make you go in the sewers, none of us would do that to you, Richie would hate us forever if we made you, can you imagine? We’ll need a lookout anyway, right, and we’re going to the Barrens first anyway, and we’ll meet up with Ben and Bev on the way. You’re a Loser, too, Stan, we love you, Richie loves you man, we won’t make you do anything you can’t.”

They’re all silent for a moment, catching up with the speed of Eddie’s mouth.

“ _Loved_ ,” Stan whispers, and his hands start to shake again. “Richie _loved_ me.”

Eddie is spared answering by Mike walking back in, in his jeans from the day before, and one of Stan’s polo shirts. Stan doesn’t say anything else, but he gets up and strides for the front door, pausing only to scuff his feet on the way out.

Eddie carefully avoids Mike’s questioning glance and Bill’s heavy gaze, and scrambles after him.

While Stan fetches his and Mike’s bikes from the garage, Bill steps up next to Eddie with his face etched in serious lines. Eddie refuses to meet his eyes, staring instead across the street, where a cat is sat on top of the hood of a car diligently cleaning its paws. He swallows heavily.

“Eddie,” Bill says, and his voice is… Eddie doesn’t know. Heartbroken, he thinks comes close, but even that isn’t quite right, because there's the beginnings of anger there, too. He shakes his head, dismissing Bill.

“Come on,” he snaps. “We’ve still got to get Ben and Bev.”

They pick Ben up with no problems at all – he’s subdued as he says goodbye to his mom, and pecks her carefully on the cheek. She smiles at the rest of the Losers bemusedly, and Eddie wonders what she sees. If she can see that there are still tears on Stan’s face, or Mike’s pinched expression. Wonders what she thinks of her son’s new friends; if she thinks anything of them at all, or if the whole encounter will be smoothed over in her mind into something she can forget about before the day is out.

None of them tease Ben about kissing his mom goodbye the way Richie ruthlessly teases Eddie – he doesn’t know if it’s because Ben’s mom doesn’t seem batshit insane, or if it’s just the sombre mood. He’ll have to stop by with Richie sometime and test it out, he thinks, and then shuts that thought down swiftly.

It takes them a few minutes of silent riding to reach Bev’s house, and it’s then they realise the glaring problem they’ve all managed to forget about until now.

Bev said her dad would kill her if he knew she’d let boys into the apartment – there’s no way he’ll let her out with them if they just knock on the door. They all stand around for a minute chewing on their lips and in the end, the best plan any of them can come up with is to have Eddie knock on the front door and then run like hell – because he is the quickest of them even though he’s the shortest, and he has, as Richie liked to say, the face of a sweet baby cherub, so adults tend not to assume he’s up to no good. Then Ben’ll knock very quietly on the door leading in from the fire escape, and hope that Bev hears it and her dad doesn’t.

There’re so many things that could go wrong with this plan, but as far as Eddie’s concerned, they don’t have time to think up another.

Besides. They’ve already faced a killer clown; how much worse can Bev’s dad really be.

A lot worse, a quiet part of Eddie suspects, because she shouldn't have to ever worry about him. But, as it turns out – it doesn’t matter. The door is opened almost as soon as he rings the bell, before he has time to take to his heels, by a middle-aged woman with long hair that’s plaited and looped over her shoulder. Eddie blinks, startled, and flaps his mouth silently.

_Richie would’ve had a field day with this_ , he thinks weakly.

“Oh!” The woman says, smiling gently at him. Her teeth are starting to brown around the edges, probably from years of smoking, Eddie notes. He doesn’t know why he’s so focused on that – he blinks a couple of times, and tries to pay attention to what she’s saying. “You must be one of Beverly’s friends! Would you like to come in? Bev! Bev, honey, one of your little friends is here!”

Eddie hears Bev’s footsteps come racing down the hall – he thinks, underneath the noise, he hears Ben’s timid knock, but he isn’t sure. He tries not to flinch, or look too guilty.

When she reaches the door, her cheeks are flushed a blotchy red, and her eyes are fever-bright and wild. She takes in Eddie’s appearance, and he doesn’t know what she sees, but he thinks that there must be a lot of it. She turns to the woman with a rushed _bye Aunt Soph!_ and grabs Eddie’s hand, practically dragging him down the corridor. Eddie turns to wave belatedly at the woman, who smiles absently as she shuts the door on them.

Eddie’s sure he’s never seen her in town before, and Bev hadn’t mentioned an aunt when she was talking about her dad; he doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, as they fly down the stairs and out into the sun.

The Losers all look up in shock when they burst through the door together – Ben is wringing his hands, and Mike looks like he’s trying to talk Bill out of going back up the fire escape himself. There are several cries of _Bev_ , with varying degrees of surprise and joy, but she just shakes her head, and immediately picks up Ben’s bike, clambering on and turning to the others impatiently when she realises that they’re all just staring at her.

“I’ll explain later,” she says. “My aunt came down from Portland last night, it’s fine, let’s _go_ , we need to _go_!”

And, well – Eddie isn’t going to argue. He settles in behind Bill, anxiety thrumming in his chest. They’re so close, now, and god, he doesn’t know how the others are going to react, but there’s joy building too, underneath the pit of fear that’s split open in his ribs. It’s fierce, and it’s blazing hot, and he thinks of Stan’s guilt, of Bill’s anger, and Ben’s quiet despair. Thinks of Mike, trying so hard to be strong, and Bev who looked so lost but still pulled herself together inch by inch for Stan, for Eddie.

He’d do _anything_ for them, he’d _die_ for them, would have, if Richie had been any slower. And he hadn’t been able to help them yesterday, not with their grief. The most he’d managed was bandaging Stan’s face – it seems so small, in comparison. And he knows, he _knows_ that it’s the same for Richie. That as much as Eddie likes to think he and Richie are… that Richie sees him differently from the others, he knows that Richie would have put himself in the firing line for any one of them, as though any of them knows how to cope with losing him.

_But we haven’t_ , he tells himself fiercely. _We haven’t lost him, he’s at the Barrens, he’s waiting for us there._

And that’s about when they reach the first police barrier.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly longer because I didn't want to end it on a cliffhanger of sorts, and I still didn't manage to get ALL of the reunion in; I did get the important bits in, though. It was a tricky one to get right, tonally, but hopefully it's in keeping with the mood of the piece. And as you will probably notice, I've watched the miniseries, and have finally started reading the book (I see why Bill Hader didn't reread it, it's a brick) so there'll be some smushing of canon within the AU, and some references thrown around.
> 
> Also, I have most of the penultimate chapter written, which is still a ways off yet, because I don't understand priorities; the good news is, that means this will eventually be a fix it! Because these kids deserve a happy ending!
> 
> And there were some plot threads that would have made it so, so much worse. But that's for another day (maybe)

Eddie freezes - he can't help it. His arms tighten until Bill hisses at him, and he can feel how the blood drains from his face. He chances a look at the other Losers; concern, confusion, frustration. 

And Bev, who looks terrified. She catches his eye, and he knows that she can see her fear reflected in his face. The cops in Derry have always been so useless, so utterly fucking complacent. He's never seen them mobilise like this, not for anything.

There are uniforms all buzzing around the area; and detectives with flat, sensible shoes and flat, sensible shirts, and flat, sensible expressions; Eddie thinks he even sees a couple of state troopers milling around. He's never seen so many cops all in one place before. He's pretty sure Derry doesn't  _ have _ this many cops. He's not entirely convinced there's this many cops in all of  _ Maine _ .

They inch closer to the barrier, and stare down into the woods. They must be right on top of the Barrens, Eddie thinks. It's a steep, thirty foot drop from here, and it only gets steeper and higher as you follow the road, unless you know the paths to take.

All the locals know the paths - Eddie watches as one of the state troopers starts to stumble, and almost goes ass over elbow down the hill. He wonders where he's from, if he'll get to go home there at the end of the day; put Derry in his rearview mirror and never look back.

Eddie stares down, watches the twigs and rocks that he'd knocked loose tumble down towards the Barrens, where he imagines he can hear the faintest gurgle of water over all the chatter.

Just down there, Richie might be -

_ Stop _ .

"Wuh-wwhat's going on?" Bill mutters, and Eddie glances around helplessly. Usually, he listens to the local radio as he eats breakfast, volume turned down low so it doesn't wake his mom on her bad days, or drown out the TV on her good days. Usually, he'd have heard about something like this before leaving the house, would meet Richie before heading over to Bill or Stan's, bursting with news. 

Those five minutes of Richie's attention first thing in the morning are something he's looked forward to for years. Even though Eddie doesn't care much personally for the news, even though he doesn't always get what they are talking about, it doesn't matter. He listens diligently, and he remembers all the details he possibly can; and for five minutes, Richie hangs on his every word. And more than that, he'll joke, and he'll stop and think about it, and come back with a perspective that Eddie could never come up with by himself. Richie's brain races as fast as Eddie's does, just three steps to the left.

"Do you think it's - do you - is it Pennywise?" Ben asks faintly.

Eddie's heart drops down through his belly and out his ass. Adults have never noticed anything to do with Pennywise before - they'd dumped bags of blood-soaked rags on the street outside Bev's apartment and no-one had even blinked - so he hadn't thought, even for a second as they rode up, that this might be something the clown did. 

"It can't be," he says, and he knows that his voice is shaking. "It can't be, It's dead, It's dead."

Dead like Richie, who turned up at his house this morning. Eddie thinks he's going to be sick.

If this is all… after this morning, he was so  _ sure _ it was really Richie. If that, if all of this is some trick, is some game that It's playing with him, if he still loses Richie at the end of this…

Stan and Bev are both staring at him. Stan's head is swaying from side to side; not quite like he's shaking it, but enough that Eddie knows he doesn't really believe that. Bev's face is paler than he's ever seen it, freckles standing out so clearly he thinks he could join the dots and make a picture. As soon as he meets her eyes, she looks away, and Eddie frowns. She's never been one to back down first, or shy away.

"We can't assume it's him," Mike says, staring out over the barrier and twisting his hands anxiously around the handlebars of his old delivery bike. He chews his lip for a moment. "I've never seen the cops like this, not even when Bowers' dad got it in his head to come after my grandpa. They wouldn't be out here for anything It did."

It's easy for Eddie to forget, sometimes, that the sight of cops isn't a comfort to Mike - that he has every reason to be almost as afraid of them as he is of the damn clown. He shuffles restlessly on the back of Silver.

"I don't think it's Pennywise," Bev agrees, but her voice is distant. "Not… exactly."

Eddie barely has time to wonder what she means by that, when the sound of an engine and tyres crunching on the hard shoulder makes him twist around. There's an ambulance pulling up to the side of the road - no lights or sirens, and the men that hop out have no urgency about them. They look sombre, and Eddie watches in horrified fascination as they start zipping themselves into coveralls.

There's something very wrong here, he thinks, as a van pulls up behind the ambulance. The EMTs start to pick their way down through the trees, loaded up with stretchers.

"Officer Nuh-N-Nell!" Bill calls suddenly, waving his arm high above his head. Eddie whips back around to stare as one of the uniforms breaks away from the group with a tired shrug to his colleagues. Eddie sort of recognises him from around town - a couple of times when they were playing places they shouldn't, he'd been the one to give them a firm warning and send them on their way.

He'd also been the one to escort Eddie to Richie's house when he'd snuck out after curfew, with nothing more than rolled eyes and a caution to not go anywhere alone, especially at night.

Eddie wonders how Bill remembers his name, then thinks of all the officers that had been in and out of Bill's house last year.

Officer Nell eyes them all shrewdly, gaze flicking around like he's counting them up. Eddie sees the moment he pauses, checks again, and furrows his brow.

"Where's your friend with the glasses?" He asks. He looks concerned, far more concerned than Eddie was expecting. Bill gulps, Stan's face drops, and Mike turns away sharply. Eddie's breathing turns ragged and cold in his chest.

It's always Richie that they turn to for a cover. His big mouth is as liable to get him deeper in trouble as it is to get them out, but he's the best at coming up with stories, or at least running his trashmouth until whoever he's trying to fool stops being suspicious and starts being annoyed. They've never had to do this for themselves.

Except for Bev.

"He and Bill had a fight," she says, and it's just the right balance of upset that her friends have fallen out, and exasperated with the idiocy of teenage boys. "He's probably in the arcade again, or the movies."

From the corner of his eye, Eddie sees Stan bite his lip so hard it bleeds, and bow his head. 

Officer Nell watches them all for a moment longer, but none of the other Losers dares open their mouth. He nods, eventually, and leans across the barrier to point a thick finger at Bill's chest.

"If I were you, lad, I'd make up with that boy," he says gravely, and there's an odd quality to the rasp of his voice that Eddie can't quite put his finger on. "This isn't the time to be pushing away your friends. Stick together, the seven of you."

Eddie winces.

Bill nods mutely. Eddie tries not to think about the expression that must be on his face.

Somehow, Bev holds it together for them all.

"That's what I've been saying." She sounds like she's commiserating, and bizarrely, it seems to work. Officer Nell softens slightly as he looks between them all, the lines carved into his cheeks lightening. 

"What's going on, sir?" Ben asks; it's probably cheating to get Ben to talk to any adults ever, with his open face and sweet voice, and ability to say  _ sir _ without sounding sarcastic.

Officer Nell's face settles back into its frown. He glances back over his shoulder down towards the Barrens - actually, no, Eddie realises. Towards his colleagues. He watches them for a moment, before leaning back in and lowering his voice, like he doesn't want to be overheard.

"There's a terrible thing happened down there," he says, and there are meanings upon meanings layered in his voice. "Lots of kids been found in and around the old sewer works, and not like we'd hoped. You kids oughta get outta here; I don't care how tough you all think you are, this ain't no place for young eyes. 

"Plenty of other places to splash around and cool off on a day like this."

It's an odd non-sequitur - but then, Officer Nell seems like an odd man.

Bill doesn't seem to hear it. 

"Yuh- you fffffound the k-kk-kids?" He says, and there's desperation in his voice. And Bill knows that Georgie's dead, he knows what the clown did to him - he knows whatever they find, it isn't going to be his little brother, not really. But there might be closure, Eddie thinks, in having a body to bury, and to grieve. People talk a lot about closure like it's the be all and end all.

He'd been too young to see his dad after he passed; his mom had refused, had been too worried that it might upset him. It's probably the only time in his life, looking back now, that he's grateful for her coddling.

Officer Nell shakes his head.

"I know what you're thinking, son," he says. It's gentle, if a little gruff. "And I can't say too much now, not while everything's still happening. But… I didn't see any sign of him down there."

Bill nods tightly. Eddie doesn't think he really expected them to find him, not after everything.

"Thanks," Bill mutters, and Officer Nell eyes him for a moment, before nodding once to himself and heading back over to where the other officers are scurrying around between the trees.

Eddie swallows hard. He doesn't know what to do now. 

According to Officer Nell, some of the kids had been in the sewers still - he doesn't know if It's lair shaking apart and flooding washed some of the bodies out or not, but the whole system will be crawling with cops, probably for days; maybe even weeks. They can't go down to the Barrens, he doesn't know where Richie went instead, and as far as the others know, now they can't even look for his body.

As far as the others know, Richie is one of the kids down there.

"What now?" Bill asks; he has to repeat himself and jostle Silver lightly for Eddie to realise he's asking  _ him _ . 

Bill's never deferred to him like this before - he's never needed to. His ideas are universally accepted by the group as good and fun, and usually Eddie is happy enough to go along with whatever his friends want to do. He doesn't care too much, as long as he's out of the house. Besides; even the few bad ideas and boring days were great. Richie has a way of livening up any activity, and Stan's oddball humour and sharp observations make time fly, and Bill is always, always leading the way.

And now Ben, Bev, and Mike have slotted themselves in so effortlessly that Eddie struggles to reconcile the fact that they've barely been friends a month.

But now they're all looking at him, and he doesn't know what to do.

The feeling of his throat closing in on itself is as familiar as it is terrifying - twice in one day isn't a record by any means, but he doesn't have his inhaler, and he doesn't have  _ Richie _ and -

Richie,  _ Richie _ . 

He can't afford to waste time like this. He knows he doesn't need the inhaler, knows there's nothing in it but water and camphor - there's nothing hidden within the metal and plastic to help him. And this morning he'd been fine, he'd been  _ fine _ once he let himself start to believe Richie. Richie had  _ helped _ him, as though he hadn't already gotten himself killed saving Eddie's life.

So now all he needs to do is figure out where Richie would have gone when he reached the Barrens and realised it was swarming with cops. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

_ Right _ ?

He  _ knows _ Richie like he doesn't know anyone else, like he doesn't even know himself most days. Knows that when he's upset he gets mad because he refuses to cry, knows when Richie wants someone to goad him on and when he wants someone to yank him back from whatever precipice his trashmouth has carried him to, even if he'd never admit it. And maybe Eddie isn't always the best person to do that because riling Richie up is always so much more satisfying, but he at least knows when it'll be welcome. He knows exactly which foods Richie is actually too picky to enjoy, and which he just pretends to hate because he knows that Eddie isn't allowed to eat them, and he doesn't want him to feel left out. He knows where Richie goes when he wants to be alone, and where he goes when he's just acting like he wants to be alone, but actually is so close to shaking apart that he'd probably explode if they really did leave him.

Okay, he can do this, okay. 

Richie wouldn't have gone home, not looking like he does. For all he jokes about his family, for all he rolls his eyes at his mom and snarks at his dad, he does really love his parents. Until they have this figured out and he looks a little less like he walked off the set of a shitty zombie movie, he wouldn't risk freaking them out; even if Eddie's mom hadn't seemed to notice anything.

Same for the hospital - Derry is small enough that at least someone on the staff would recognise Richie and call his parents before he even had a chance to tell them his name. And whatever happened, they  _ would _ have to call them. Besides - there's no way Richie would willingly set foot in Derry Home.

Usually when he wants to avoid people, Richie goes to the Aladdin, and sneaks from one showing to the next while the staff pretend not to notice him - in summer when the weather is good it's rarely crowded, and it's an easy excuse not to have to talk to anyone. Somehow, Eddie doesn't think he'll be there today. Or the arcade, for that matter.

And Richie would absolutely kill him if he found out Eddie knows this, but he'll sometimes take himself down to the little AM radio station on the outskirts of town and hang around until they take pity on him and let him in to watch the recording room.

None of that is any use, though, because Richie wouldn't have gone anywhere he would risk being seen by someone that might actually see that there's something wrong with him.

_ Think, think, think _ .

Somewhere Richie would feel safe, somewhere he knows Eddie will be able to find him, somewhere without people and easy to get to without his bike.

Somewhere they could splash around on a day like this.

"The quarry," Eddie mutters to himself. Bill eyes him warily, mouth pressed so thin his lips are completely white, but eventually he nods.

Eddie kind of wishes he’d stop with that - with going along with whatever Eddie says, as though he’s afraid of what he might do if Bill pushes back. He knows that he’d scared them yesterday. He’d scared himself, which should have been impressive after everything the clown put them through.

“Oh-okay,” Bill says. “We’ll go to the q-qq-quarry, Eddie.”

No-one protests. Stan looks like he wants to, face drawn and exhausted; Mike flicks a worried glance between Eddie and Bill like he thinks he may have missed something important. Ben is hunched forward over his handlebars - even Bev rubbing her thumbs gently in the crease of his neck isn’t enough to make him uncurl. Even so, they all follow quickly enough when Bill pushes off on Silver. It’s always a laborious process for Bill to get his enormous bike up to speed, but once he has the momentum, the others have to struggle and sweat and puff to keep up.

The quarry isn’t a long ride, but the quickest route is across Old Man Peters’ fields, and it’s not something that is ever worth the risk, on a bike. On foot, you can usually get away with it; at least part of the year, ducking down into the long grass and skirting along the hedges doubled over and giggling the whole way. Eddie’s sure that’s the way Richie will have taken, and even with all of them riding like the wind, he’s sure to beat them there.

There’s a shivery fear and excitement beginning to race through him that picks up speed as Silver does, and only gets stronger as they get closer to the quarry. He twists on the package shelf, still clinging to Bill, and tries to look for the other Losers, but they’re all trailing behind in Silver’s dust. He thinks he catches a glimpse of Mike, grim-faced but determined, and maybe the others not far behind, until they round the corner onto Harris Avenue and he loses them.

Eddie thinks he should warn Bill before they get there. That, even if he can’t explain exactly what’s happening, he shouldn’t let Bill go into this blind; he should have Bill stop and wait for the others, try to prepare them, at least a little.

But there’s nothing he can say to make this any better, to persuade Bill that he hasn’t just cracked, or that it isn’t just Pennywise. He wraps his arms tighter around Bill, the weight of Bill’s backpack slung over his own shoulders solid and comforting. He thinks he can feel a bottle of water sloshing around in there, and there’s a rattling sound like he’s packed torches or something.

Normally that sort of thing would be left up to Stan and Eddie while Bill and Richie forged ahead. But Stan was so tired he’d almost forgotten to put his shoes on before leaving the house, and Eddie… Well.

Silver flies down the street, and Bill weaves up on the sidewalk and back on the road, between parked cars and across the corners of lawns with no pattern that Eddie can see. The huge wheels eat up the ground beneath them, the houses flash past, getting further and further apart as they reach the outskirts of town until there’s nothing left but fields and scattered woodland. 

Tears prickle at Eddie’s eyes, and he can’t figure out exactly why. He smears them into the back of Bill’s shirt, and hopes that he never, ever mentions it.

It’s a bumpy few minutes after they turn off the road. They head straight down to the water, because Eddie really doesn’t feel like jumping down today, and it seems that Bill is in perfect, unspoken agreement with him. Bill sits back on the seat as they clatter over rocks and twigs, and almost sends them flying no fewer than four times, but they eventually make it to the bottom with only a couple of scratches from low branches to show for the trouble. Eddie can hear the others following close behind, the familiar rattle of spokes and gear chains over unsteady ground, but it suddenly doesn’t matter.

Richie is sat high on one of the rocks with his shoes kicked off and one foot dangling in the water. His face looks marginally cleaner than it did before, and he’s poking curiously at the bone sticking out of his shin. Eddie wants to be sick. He wants to cry. He wants to whoop, and holler, and hug Richie so tight that his warmth starts to bleed across.

Instead of doing any of that, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “don’t fucking poke it, asshole, do you have any idea how gross your hands are?”

Richie’s head snaps up, eyes wide in his pale face, and when he smiles, his teeth are clean. Eddie doesn’t think about him gargling the quarry water, because he really doesn’t think he can handle that.

“ _ Shit _ .” Bill is frozen in front of Eddie. His voice shakes, and he stares, and stares, and stares up at Richie. “Yuh-yy-y-you, you -” He can’t get any further, can’t push any more words from between his clattering teeth.

Richie’s face folds in on itself, and he hops down, splashing through the shallows towards them. Bill flinches back, so hard he knocks into Eddie, who is preoccupied with trying to clamber down off Silver without falling on his ass, and Richie stops dead -  _ ha _ \- like he’s been poleaxed. He rocks forward, overbalancing slightly, he stops so fast. Bill keeps stuttering, one hand up and outstretched towards Richie, and Eddie isn’t sure if it’s reaching or if it’s meant to keep him in place. 

He hears the cries from behind him as the others pull up, but he can’t turn around yet, can’t drag his eyes away from Richie, can’t risk looking back.

There’s a clatter that sounds like a bike falling over, Mike’s hoarse shout, and then a blur of beige shorts and dark hair races past Eddie and thumps into Richie so hard that Eddie’s surprised he stays upright. Richie laughs a little, incredulous, but one of his hands buries itself in Stan’s hair, and he rocks them side-to-side as Stan clings to him. Richie has always been tactile with them, and he’s often the only one of them that Stan tolerates casual touches from; Eddie’s never seen him like this.

Stan is a couple of inches taller than Richie, something Richie never fails to gripe about when it’s mentioned however off-handedly, but you’d never know that to look at them now. Stan’s hunched down, face tucked into the filth of Richie’s t-shirt - Eddie will have to redo his bandages now, after it had taken him so long to get them right the first time, but he doesn’t care, it isn’t important - and he looks smaller than Eddie’s ever seen. After a moment his hands start to flutter, feathery touches across Richie’s face, his shoulders, arms, the tattered hem of his shirt.

“It doesn’t make  _ sense _ , it didn’t make  _ sense _ ,” Stan is saying over and over as Eddie approaches. He’s crying and laughing all at once, and Eddie ignores Bill’s hissing voice and Mike’s cut off  _ Eddie, wait! _

“Aw Stan,” Richie says, aiming for levity and failing miserably with the way his voice is all choked up. “Didja miss me?”

“It was only a day, how did I forget how annoying you are; you asshole, get the fuck outta here,” Stan mutters, and burrows back into Richie’s arms. 

Eddie bites his tongue, hard, until the copper tang of blood swells in his mouth, and tries not to feel pushed aside. Stan is Richie’s best friend. Of course he’ll need some time.

He twists his fingers together, and then lifts a hand to pat awkwardly at Stan’s shoulder. Richie beams at him.

“ _ Get the fuck away from them! _ ”

Eddie has heard Bill roar before. On Silver, racing down quiet streets with his battle-cry of  _ hi yo Silver, away! _ echoing between them, and in the Barrens when they’d faced down Bowers and his gang with nothing but a handful of pebbles and blazing rage. It’s like a completely different voice, a different person that bubbles up from deep in his chest and never, ever stutters.

Eddie has heard Bill roar before, but never like this.

Richie looks past Eddie to Bill and staggers back, hands stretched out by his side. Stan stumbles in his wake, hands still twisted in his shirt, and when Eddie turns around, he positions himself directly between the three of them, cutting off Bill's line of sight.

He looks scared. He looks  _ furious _ .

He's stepped away from Silver, and the enormous bike lays forgotten next to him. He's glaring fire past Eddie, and every line of his body is so tense it's painful to look at. Mike is next to him, one hand curled around his wrist like he's holding him back - Bev is misty eyed, staring at Richie with the beginnings of a smile pulling at her cheeks. Ben's face is flushed, mouth parted in shock as he stares around them all. He's holding Bev's hand, and doesn't seem to have noticed.

"Bill," Mike whispers, but the silence that's taken hold is so absolute that he might as well have been roaring too. "Bill, hang on a minute -"

"You get  _ away _ from them!" 

Eddie can hear the awkward, splashing footfalls of Richie and Stan behind him, but he doesn't turn to look at them. Facing Bill like this is a little like facing a wild animal, he thinks. He can't risk showing him his back, can't risk a display of weakness.

Can't risk trusting him.

"Bill, I -" Richie starts, voice shaking; Bill cuts him off, head jerking back and forth like he's trying to shake something off. 

" _ Don't _ ," he snaps. His face creases, loses some of its fear and falls deeper into anger. "Don't you fucking  _ dare _ use Richie you  _ goddamn shitty _ clown!"

Eddie doesn't know what Bill put in his backpack this morning, but he thinks it's probably a good thing that he doesn't have hold of it - it feels like there's at least one thing in there that could be used as a blunt weapon, and Bill looks spitting mad enough to try. Bill's eyes flick between Eddie and Stan, and the colour high on his cheeks darkens as his brow furrows further. 

"Stan, Eddie," he says, and his voice is very, very soft and very, very measured. "That's not Richie. Richie is - Ruh-Rrrichie is  _ dead _ just like Georgie, because of  _ that _ !" He stabs a finger in Richie's direction, as though he can hide the way he stumbled over Richie's name if he gestures eloquently enough.

" _ Bill _ ," Richie whispers, and Eddie knows it's got to hurt him. They all look up to Bill, even Richie - Bill can get him to back down like no one else. Earning his disappointment always leaves Richie shaken, and bouncing back twice as loud to make up for it. Bill has been angry at him before, they've fought before, because they're kids, and they say stupid shit, and they get mad. This is something else; this isn't Richie making a gross joke, or crossing a boundary. This is Richie sounding scared, sounding heartbroken, sounding like he doesn't understand what's happening, or why, or how.

But it's got to be hurting Bill, too. Even if he doesn't believe it yet, Richie is back, and Georgie isn't, and Eddie doesn't know why it's different. It isn't fair, not to Bill and not to Georgie.

It isn't fair that Eddie's glad it was Richie that came back; not to Bill and not to Georgie.

"Bill," Richie whispers again; the sound is trapped in the back of his throat like it's coming up out of him from a great distance, and by the time it reaches them, it barely carries on the wind. He seems to have run out of words, which is so unlike him that for a moment Eddie starts to doubt himself. When has Richie ever  _ not _ had something to say for himself? Maybe he was wrong before, maybe he'll turn around any second and see that  _ thing _ latched onto Stan again, finishing the job. They'll be two Losers down, and the clown will have won, and Richie will be gone -

But when he risks a glance back, Richie is still there. He's shaking - not the jerky flailing of the Georgie thing after Bill shot it, but a soft, full-body tremor. He looks like he's crying, though no tears fall. 

Eddie doesn't overthink it the way he normally does - doesn't think about how long it takes pathogens to transfer from skin contact, or how the lines of warmth on his skin left in Richie's wake always make him feel feverish, or how many times Richie has touched him already and can he get away with one more or will that tip them over into too many times and make it weird? 

Eddie doesn't think about it at all - he storms up to Richie and slots himself against his side, opposite Stan who still had his hand bunched in Richie's shirt. It's a bit of a stretch, but he reaches up with his left arm to wrap around Richie's neck, and pull him down slightly until he's closer to Eddie's height. 

He doesn't know what his face must look like to Bill - pleading, defiant, angry, scared? Eddie doesn't even know how he  _ feels _ , just knows that he's feeling it a lot.

Both Mike and Ben look panicked - Mike is clinging to Bill like it's the only thing keeping them both upright. It's so much like yesterday, when Bill had been ready to charge back into Neibolt if not for Mike's steadying hands, that Eddie has to swallow hard against the emotion crawling up his throat. Bill would have thrown himself back into the house, through the flooding; would have faced the clown that took so much from him for the chance of bringing Richie's body back out into the daylight when Eddie couldn't even stand up.

Maybe it was guilt; or maybe that's just the sort of person Bill is. 

But there's none of that guilt in his face now. None of the desperation.

"Bill." Bev steps up beside him; her voice is gentle enough that it doesn't get his hackles up when he rounds on her. She's probably the only one of the Losers that could make Bill look away from Richie right now. Her eyes have progressed from misty to spilling over, and when she lays a careful hand on Bill's shoulder, all the fight runs out of him. Eddie still doesn't take his eyes off him. 

"I think it's really him," she says, and Eddie has the uncomfortable feeling that he's witnessing something private. As though they've forgotten the rest of them can still hear, even though they're all stood so close and so quiet that Eddie can hear Ben's fearful little huffs of breath. 

Bill shakes his head like he's trying to throw off a lingering dream.

"You saw It buh-bbb-buh-before," he gasps. "With Georgie. That isn’t Richie, it’s just th-thhhhe clown  _ playing _ with us. Richie’s  _ dead _ , he’s  _ gone _ , and we left him in the  _ fucking _ sewer, and now Pennywise is… is…”

There’s a clamour as everyone rushes to speak at once.

_ It wasn’t your fault _ and  _ this isn’t Pennywise, I promise _ and  _ we’ll figure this out, Bill _ and  _ I swear, it’s really him, it’s really Richie _ .

And, “what?” 

Right in Eddie’s ear, thundering above the others, above his heartbeat.

And, “you left me?”

Barely loud enough to be called a whisper.

Richie isn’t shaking anymore. He’s still. He isn’t breathing. He doesn’t pull away from Eddie, but he isn’t leaning his weight against him either. Eddie can hardly see Bev’s stricken expression, or the way Ben’s face crumples; he wants to watch Bill, wants to talk to him, wants to persuade him that he knows what he’s talking about, he really does, that this  _ is _ Richie, that he doesn’t need to be scared, or angry.

He wants to do all of these things, but he can’t, because Richie  _ isn’t breathing _ .

It’s like being back in Neibolt, and also nothing at all like it - like Richie hyperventilating and reading a poster listing him as missing while Eddie did  _ nothing _ , only RIchie isn’t hyperventilating now, he isn’t ventilating at all, and it isn’t Bill taking his hands and calming him down, it’s Stan, and Eddie still does  _ nothing _ , still so fucking  _ useless _ , he can’t -

How is he supposed to match his breathing to Richie’s when there’s nothing to match it  _ to _ ?

When he tilts his head back to look at Richie, he’s already staring right back. Eddie didn’t think it was possible, but his face looks impossibly paler than before. Sunlight catches in the spiderweb of glass over his eyes, hiding them for just a second.

“Eds?” He says, and he’s pleading, just like he had at Eddie’s house, for answers, for something to fill in the gaps of his memory, for  _ hope _ .

**Where’re you going, Eds?**

_ Nowhere _ , he thinks fiercely, and grips Richie tighter.

“What do you remember, Rich?” Bev asks. Richie frowns at Eddie before turning to meet her concerned gaze. 

“Why?” He asks; there’s a jittery edge to him, feet shuffling restlessly, little twitches of muscle as his body tries to decide which direction is best to throw itself to get him away from this conversation. Richie gets like this, sometimes, when he’s put in a spotlight that he didn’t choose to shine himself. “Why, what happened? We got It, didn’t we? We kicked the shit outta It, we  _ beat _ It, why do you think I’m Pennywise, how could I be Pennywise when we  _ killed _ It, we  _ killed _ It, right? Right, Eds?”

The words run together almost faster than Eddie can keep up with. 

“ _ Richie - _ ” he starts, but there must be something telling in his voice; Richie starts shaking his head before Eddie can even finish his name.

“No, no, we  _ got _ It, It was, It was barely hanging on, Bill had a, a pipe, It…” Richie falters. “It was going to - to get Eddie, you weren’t looking, but It was going to get you, It was - oh  _ god _ !”

Richie throws himself back, tears his way out of Eddie and Stan’s grip, and doubles over retching. He doesn’t bring anything up - Eddie doesn’t know if there’s anything in his stomach  _ to _ bring up. He just keeps retching, dry and pained, one hand clamped over his stomach and the other fisted tight in his hair. It still looks like he’s trying to talk; he keeps opening his mouth around words, before he gags and has to give up. Eddie has to clamp a hand over his own mouth so that the sound doesn’t set him off. Bill is a sympathetic crier - Eddie is a sympathetic vomiter.

Bev pushes past Bill and Mike, strides past Eddie, and leans over Richie - it’s not really a hug so much as it’s Bev trying to press as much of herself as close to Richie as possible. Bill’s face has lost all of its colour; Ben and Mike are glancing at each other, cautious optimism starting to creep across their faces. Eddie hopes that means they’re coming around. That they’re coming to the same conclusion he had this morning - that Pennywise doesn’t commit to his acts like this, doesn’t go this long without taking an opportunity to scare them.

Especially not when he has them all together.

“I died, I  _ died _ ,” Richie chokes, and then it’s like a dam has burst, like he can’t stop repeating it. “Fuck,  _ fuck _ , I died, I died, god, shit,  _ fuck,  _ I  _ died _ !” 

“Rich,” Eddie manages; he’s echoed by Bill, and it’s all the push they needed.

As one, the other Losers stagger forward, and crowd Richie as he drops to the floor, gasping raggedly as he tries to speak. Bev presses her forehead to his shoulder, Stan knocks Richie’s fist from his hair and replaces it with his own, gentler hand. Mike wraps himself around Richie’s back, Ben and Bill each grasp a forearm, and Eddie takes Richie’s hands in his own, squeezing as hard as he can. It takes RIchie a little while to respond, and when he squeezes back, it’s hard enough that Eddie is sure he’ll have bruises by tomorrow.

Good. He wants to be able to look down at his hands and know this was real, that today really did happen.

Richie sways lightly, against Mike, then Bev, then Bill, and forward, leaning his weight on Eddie’s hands. Eddie can feel the way his arms begin to strain as he holds Richie upright, but he’s strong enough to stop them falling; he loves it in the way he loves racing Bill on Silver, the way he loves getting to run laps around the school field, the way he loves tussling with Richie until he’s perched on Richie’s chest and crowing his victory while Richie giggles helplessly under his hands. It’s a familiar-unfamiliar knowledge of just how far he can push his own body before it gives up; it’s something his mom never did manage to take from him.

“You left me,” Richie mutters finally. He’s calmed a little, but there’s still a note of vulnerability in his voice. He’s ready to be hurt, and to be angry, because the thought of any of them knowing he’s hurting is, Eddie thinks, just about the worst thing in the world to Richie. “You said you left me down there, Billy.”

“The whole place was flooding,” Mike says so that Bill doesn’t have to. He rubs Richie’s arm soothingly, up and down, up and down. “All the sewer system, and Pennywise’s hoard came down with all the kids. We’d’ve drowned.”

Richie takes that in, mouth pressed into a thin line, and eyebrows drawn low as he thinks. Eventually, he nods, and sucks in a deep breath through his nose - Eddie hadn’t noticed, until then, if he’d been breathing all along or not.

“I-III-I I’m suh-sorry,” Bill says. He’s crying. He looks like he wants to press on, push through the stutter and the tears, but Richie shakes his head.

“I get it,” Richie says. “I get it, but Bill, I don’t wanna hear it. You  _ left _ me. I get it, but just… not yet, okay?”

Bill nods miserably, and Eddie watches as he tries to pull himself together. Everyone is quiet for a long moment.

“Richie?” Bev says, breaking the heavy, woollen silence that had fallen over them all. Richie hums, and doesn’t turn his face from where he’s pressing it back into Stan’s hand. “What the fuck is up with your leg?”


End file.
